We were both from the coast,so Jeff, who had always lived in the middle,took us to the combine dealers’ lotsand climbed over the machines,pointing out his favorite hazard stickers.At every mechanized joint, a yellow and black rectangle showedsilhouetted figures losing their headsor mangling their arms.

You’d think the fields would be litteredwith dismembered Iowans. But no:nothing but order to the horizon.Still, we walked carefully at the town’s edge,aware of the machinery that could comeroaring suddenly from the cornlike memory, as it does now,cutting me in places no one warned me I’d bleed.

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About Me

Mom, Ph.D., clutterer, setting off on the tenure track in public history. My own interests trend toward museum studies, American studies, historic architecture and preservation, material culture, and women in science. I live with a gregarious and funny 5-year-old boy and a Cliffordesque puppy, and I'm married to the best husband and father in the whole world. I really don't deserve that distinction, but I selfishly keep him all to myself.